steadier than they appreciated.
I stopped outside the custodial closet where my father used to keep his cart.
For a moment, I could almost see him there with his keys clipped to his belt, looking up and saying, “You all right, Pumpkin?”
I touched the old brass handle and smiled through tears.
“Yes,” I whispered into the quiet hallway.
“I think I am.”
My world had once felt small in the best possible way.
That night at prom, I learned something my father had probably known all along.
A life can look small from the outside and still leave fingerprints on an entire building.
A man can spend years mopping floors and still become the most important person in the room.
And a daughter can walk into cruelty wearing grief on her shoulders, only to discover she has been carrying honor the whole time.
